The only good Lawyer

mentioning anyone in particular as being a steady relationship.”
    A subtle way to suggest Gant played the field. But also a pretty elaborate answer to my pretty simple question.
    I said, “Do you have any suggestions on who might know the woman’s identity?”
    “Sorry.”
    Last shot. “How about why Mr. Gant would have picked that particular restaurant?”
    “Try Deborah Ling.”
    “One of the associates here, right?”
    A nod. “It seems to me that she recommended the place—no, that’s not right. Deborah took him there once.”
    “When?”
    “Oh, months ago.”
    “How do you know?”
    Uta Radachowski steepled the fingers again, tapping her chin in tune to a silent melody. “The name of the place was unusual enough that I remember Woodrow telling me he didn’t enjoy the food very much.”

Chapter 7

    C oming out of Uta Radachowski’s office, I was wondering why Woodrow Gant would return, apparently with a date, to a restaurant where he supposedly didn’t like the fare. Then I saw the man I believed to be Elliot Herman rushing back into an office. I went up to the doorway and watched him shoveling file folders into an attaché case opened like a clamshell.
    Before knocking, I took in his workspace. It was spartan rather than barren, with just some diplomas on the wall, a mini-fridge against it, and two Marine Corps captain’s chairs across from a cluttered desk. A paperweight in the shape of the Corps’ globe and eagle held down a stack of correspondence next to his computer terminal. Standing on the corner of his desk was a Lucite frame holding a portrait photo of an attractive woman about Herman’s age with long, honey-blond hair. The frame was angled so she could be seen from the captain’s chairs, a conversation starter should the current visitor not be into the Halls of Montezuma or the Shores of Tripoli.
    I rapped my knuckles lightly on the jamb.
    Herman looked up, the streak of white hair seeming to ride his head like a racing stripe. “Who are you?”
    “Mr. Herman?”
    “Yes, but—look, go back to the receptionist, and maybe she can—”
    “You’re the one I want to see.”
    “Not a chance.” He went back to filling his briefcase. “I’ve got a meeting outside the office in...” a glance at his watch, “...fifteen minutes.”
    “I’m John Cuddy. Did Frank Neely mention me to you?”
    Herman stopped with a file half on its way to joining the others. “Woodrow?”
    “That’s right.”
    He frowned. “Look, how about if we talk while I walk to my meeting?”
    “Fine with me.”
    Herman crammed in two more folders, then closed the briefcase by leaning down on its corners with his palms before engaging the clasps with his thumbs. Viewed fully from the front, he had features matching the intense manner I’d seen in the reception area. His eyes were close-set around a strong nose and stronger jaw that looked like it enjoyed giving orders in the old days and chewing out anybody who didn’t follow them to the letter.
    Herman came toward me briskly with the attaché case, setting it down only long enough to grab the jacket of his suit off a hook behind the door and shrug into it.
    As he reached again for the case, I said, “Your collar’s up.”
    “What?”
    “The collar of your jacket is turned up, as though you’re cold.”
    “Oh. Thanks.” Herman fixed it, then snapped his fingers, saying, “Cold, right,” and went to the minifridge. He opened the door and took out a can of what looked like pineapple juice. Coming back, Herman grabbed his briefcase again and charged by me. As I caught up to him at the reception desk, he said to a woman I’d not seen before, “Out of the office. My wife calls, tell her I’ll be back by five.”
    “Back here, Mr. Herman?”
    “Yes,” he said testily as he hit the elevator button and was saved a coronary by the door opening for him immediately. Once we started descending, Herman pulled a tab off the top of the can and began gulping.
    I said, “Juicing it?”
    “What?”
    I pointed to his drink.
    “Oh. Negative.” Herman held the can so I could see the brand name on the label. “This is a liquid meal for people like me who don’t have the time to eat.”
    I nodded, thinking that maybe the cuisine hadn’t improved all that much since his days in the Marines. “How does it taste?”
    “Like fast food from a can. But it keeps me going.” We reached the lobby, and he was out of the elevator and moving fast in two